


Sixty-Nine Love Songs: Being an Anthology of Harry Potter One-Shots Based on the Album by the Magnetic Fields

by HC_Weatherfield



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anthology, Coffee, Drabble, Family Feels, Fluff, I'll tag other stuff as it comes up, Multi, One Shot Collection, Probably mostly light stuff because I have to make jokes, Romance, Songfic, Vignette, flangst, which is probably a character flaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/HC_Weatherfield
Summary: What it says on the tin: unrelated, multi-pairing oneshots from the HP universe, each one based on one of the songs from the Magnetic Fields Album '69 Love Songs.'  I was just listening to it one day and got struck with the hipster version of a plot bunny...like...a concept bunny?





	1. Absolutely Cuckoo

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! Hope you enjoy this little self-made challenge! It should update fairly regularly, probably daily for a while at least, so if you subscribe you'll get a nice short little story in your inbox every day!
> 
> The chapter titles literally are the song titles, so it should be easy enough to coordinate this with the album. If you haven't heard the album, you should, because it's delightful. It's on Spotify, so go check it out! I'll wait.

The first time Arthur Weasley met Molly Prewett, they were both eight years old. There was a huge party at the Burrow for Arthur’s father’s sixty-sixth birthday (a Wizarding milestone), and this was the first time many of the Weasley children were meeting the family’s more distant friends and relatives.

Eight-year-old Arthur was not meeting anybody, however. He was in his hideaway—the stuffy loft in the roof of the shed—having abandoned his _Superman_ comics in order to examine a rubber duck using a screwdriver. Nobody could find him, and he had his Muggle things; these happy facts made the noise drifting in from the huge outdoor party seem like a comforting roar rather than a frightening one.

He dropped the rubber duck when he heard a crash from the window just below the loft. The duck gave a sad little piffling squeak. Arthur crawled to the edge of the loft, looking down over the ladder to investigate.

There, sprawled on the floor amongst sawdust, hay, and broomstick cleaning implements, was a girl about his age. She had a sweet round face and red curls just slightly darker than his own straight hair. Slightly chubby, she gave off a sense of frenetic energy even while lying still.

“All right there?” Arthur asked, then immediately clamped his hand to his mouth. He’d given himself away! Oh, he hoped the girl wasn’t going to tattle on him. Aunt Muriel was out there!

“I’ve had worse,” said the girl. She stood up in an easy movement, proving herself much more athletic than pale, skinny Arthur thought he himself was ever likely to be. She looked up at him and giggled.

“What are you doing up there?”

“It’s my hiding spot,” said Arthur. Something about her sparkling, warm brown eyes compelled him to honesty. “You won’t tell?”

“Course not,” said the girl, but with a hint of mischief. “So long as you show me.”

Arthur restrained a sigh. He did not want to show anybody, but clearly there was no getting rid of this girl. She didn’t seem so bad, at least. He gestured toward the ladder, silently inviting her up. She climbed.

“Whoa,” breathed the girl, looking around at Arthur’s piles of bizarre artifacts, books, comics, newspapers, and ephemera. “What’s all this then?”

“Muggle things,” said Arthur, both pride and defensiveness filling his voice. “I like to study them. That’s what I want to do when I grow up.”

“What,” the girl giggled, “Be a muggle?”

“No,” said Arthur testily, “I mean study muggles. Understand them. Somebody’s got to.”

The girl’s giggling died down, and she gave him an appraising look. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur.

“So it’s going to be a full-time job, you reckon? This muggle-studying?”

“Er,” said Arthur, “Yeah. I mean, it already is.”

“Not going to have time for much else, are you?” the girl observed. “Not to get big and strong, run a house, any of that. No time for quidditch and the like.”

Arthur curled into himself, feeling hurt at the implications of the words. The girl crawled forward a bit, lightly touching his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, “It’s okay. I understand.” Arthur looked up at her skeptically. “I do,” she insisted. “You know, I’m planning to marry someone who needs me to be big and strong for them, and run the house and take care of things. I can do that enough for two people, I think. That’s what my brothers say.”

“Er,” said Arthur, “Don’t you have to go to Hogwarts first?”

“Of course, silly,” she said, with that giggle Arthur was beginning to like. She looked around philosophically. “I like your house, you know. And your garden. And your shed.”

“Er.”

“And you,” she added.

“You can’t marry me,” Arthur blurted out. “I’m only eight! And I don’t know your name!”

“Molly Prewett,” she informed him, still giggling. “I’m only eight, too.”

“Oh,” said Arthur.

Molly stared him down for a moment, gave a resolute nod as if to herself, then rocked forward to plant a brief kiss on his cheek. She crawled back to the ladder then, addressing him one last time before she went over the edge.

“See you at Hogwarts, Arthur Weasley.”

He listened to her clamber down the ladder, then back up out the window. When all was silent again apart from the dull roar of the party, Arthur looked down at his rubber duck, which lay plaintively on its side, looking slightly deflated.

“What d’you think of that, then?” he asked it.


	2. I Don't Believe in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This song is just so dramatic...I couldn't think of anyone but Draco.

“Draco, darling, do get up. The sun’s out! It’s a lovely day.”  
“For flying!” Blaise suggested.  
“Or sitting out on the lawn and mocking all our friends,” Pansy added.  
“No,” mumbled the pile of covers that presumably contained Draco.  
“Really, Draco, it’s lovely out. It’d be a terrible day to waste,” said Pansy.  
“No sun,” said Draco.  
“Ah, but there is,” said Blaise, pulling the covers off Draco’s head to prove the point.   
“Who let you two in?” Draco asked, blinking up at them through the light that was indeed streaming into the room through the windows.  
“Your mother,” they said in unison.  
“Go ‘way,” he told them, burying his face in his his massive nest of pillows.  
“Not without you,” said Blaise.  
“Then be quiet.”  
“How could we be quiet on a day like this? Look at that sunlight! I could just sing!” Pansy spread her arms as if about to do so, when a lightning-fast stinging hex hit her.   
"Ow!" she complained, "D'you really still sleep with your wand under your pillow? Uncouth!"  
“Come on, Draco,” said Blaise, gentle but firm. “Get up.”  
Draco huffed, turning onto his back to look up at them. “This is a terrible day and I do not want to get out of bed.”  
“Nonsense,” said Pansy. “Your mood aside, this is about as balmy as Britain gets, outside a climate charm. You’d forever regret not coming outside.”  
Draco glanced out the window and said, “I see only clouds.”  
Pansy huffed. So that was what this was.  
“Trying to drag me out of bed to go out in the sad, cold rain. Some friends you are.”  
“Draco,” said Blaise impatiently, “Is this really necessary?”  
“No, it isn’t,” Draco replied. “You could just leave me be.”  
“Couldn’t,” Pansy argued.  
“Then stay as long as you like,” said Draco, pulling his blankets up to his ears. “When I wake, remind me to replace my astronomy books.”  
“Why?” said Pansy, before she was able to catch herself to avoid the conversational trap.  
“Because all the stars have died,” Draco said ominously. Then he was buried in blankets again.  
Blaise and Pansy had a silent staring contest, which Blaise lost. He went to sit on Draco’s bed, putting his hand roughly where he guessed the other man’s shoulder would be.  
“Draco, love, can you look at me for a moment?”  
“No,” said Draco, looking at him.  
“All right. I’m here in good faith, knowing that you could hex me, but that, because you are my friend, you will not. I am placing my trust in you.”  
“Shouldn’t,” Draco muttered.  
“I simply want to suggest that...perhaps...you might apologize to him?”  
Draco glared. “Get off my bed, you bottomless sack of bubotuber shit.”  
“The Malfoy astronomy library is very old and illustrious,” Pansy offered. “It would be a shame to destroy it if it’s at all avoidable.”  
“Shove it up a thestral’s arsehole.”  
“Impractical,” Blaise observed. “It really is a very large library.”  
“I hate you,” said Draco, sitting up and calling a house-elf for tea.

That night, when Draco appeared on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, there was thunder rolling in the distance. By the time Harry finally relented and drew Draco into his arms, it had begun to rain, although neither of them noticed.


	3. All My Little Words

Albus crossed out the line and frowned. Then he crossed it out again, just to be sure it was completely obliterated. Then he cast an _incendio_ on the whole paper.

It was no use. The sestina might be one of the most magical styles of poetry, but that didn’t necessarily mean it lent itself easily to even such a talented wizard as Albus. Certainly, he was clever with words, and he loved the puzzle of fitting them together. But somehow, he couldn’t make them emotional, couldn’t make them _beautiful_.

That was the problem, really. Albus could do a lot, but he couldn’t seem to make things beautiful. He himself wasn’t beautiful, he knew. Tall and gawky, with his red hair and beard, he knew his looks didn’t go much beyond ‘charmingly awkward’ at best, and his taste didn’t do anything to help him along. He dressed himself in such a way as to catch the eye, but never with the refined subtlety expected of a Pureblood of his standing. For this reason, he didn’t trust himself much to buy gifts for Gellert. He restricted himself to small, understated tokens, like the sapphire tiepin Gellert wore frequently, probably just out of kindness.

Gellert _was_ beautiful. He had smooth pale skin, golden hair that curled just slightly, and laughing eyes of a deeply saturated blue. He was beardless, and dressed well if simply, and there was music in his richly accented voice. And Albus was a fool.

He sighed and put his head in his hands, pushing his tangled hair behind his ears as he did so. He was a fool and an ingrate. Every kiss, every touch, every secret smile, was a gift, and all he could do when Gellert was away was sulk in his room, writing and obsessing and wondering if it was all out of pity, if Gellert was using him. It wasn’t so bad, even if that was the case. It was a privilege, really, to be used. Albus thought that, perhaps, he was deserving of love, but he wasn’t going to kid himself. He did not deserve Gellert’s love. He wasn’t sure anyone could.

“Bub?” came a small voice from the doorway. Albus turned, surprised. That was his little sister’s nickname for him.

“Hello, Ariana,” he said cautiously, beckoning the girl. She smiled and went to stand close to him, staring at the mess on his desk. “What are you doing up here?”

“Abe said I was being good, he let me out,” she informed him. “What are you working on?”

“You’re going to laugh,” said Albus.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, her mischievous expression belying the assurance.

Albus sighed dramatically. “I’m trying to write a poem. See, I told you you’d laugh!” Ariana was indeed giggling, and Albus reached out to tickle her. She wriggled away, going to sit on the edge of his large desk, just out of his reach.

“Why are you writing a poem?” she asked him.

“If you must know...I thought Gellert might like it.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, her voice filled with the comprehensive wisdom of a seven-year-old.

“None of that, now,” Albus grumbled. “You know I—”

“—don’t want to talk about it,” Ariana finished.

“You know I trust you,” Albus assured her in a practiced lie. “It’s important, though, that nobody else hear. They wouldn’t like it. Not even Abe.”

“I know,” said Ariana.

“All right,” said Albus, and he smiled at his little sister. “Come here, then.” He patted his leg, and she clambered up onto his lap for a rare moment of affection. He took her hair down from its fastenings, finger-combing it and then beginning to braid it. She made a noise of contentment and leaned into him.

“When is Gellert visiting again?” she asked. “I miss him. I drew a picture for him.”

“I don’t know,” said Albus, soothingly stroking her jawline with his thumb. “I’ll tell you when he tells me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know what a sestina is, I refer you to Neil Gaiman for an example:  
> https://angelsalvogomez.blogspot.com/2011/10/vampire-sestina-by-neil-gaiman.html  
> (It's very easy to write one, but very hard to write a good one).  
> & yes, anti-hero!Dumbledore is the hill I will die on.


	4. A Chicken With Its Head Cut Off

Harry and Cho ran into each other at a cafe near Ministry headquarters in London.

“Cho?” Harry asked. “What are you doing here?”

Cho turned around. She was still astonishingly beautiful, skin smooth, dark eyes sparkling, hair like silk. She wore a soft sweatshirt featuring the logo for the Kenmare Kestrels, the Quidditch team she’d been playing on for the past seven years.

“Harry!” Cho responded. “Hello there, didn’t see you. I had to stop by Magical Games and Sports. Didn’t really expect to run into anybody, but I suppose that was silly of me.”

“Yeah,” said Harry affably, “Bit of a small world around here.”

“Harry, I don’t suppose—that is, if you’ve got a minute, I’d love to sit down and have a chat with you.” Cho sounded nervous, unsure of herself despite her years of success as a professional Seeker. Harry felt as if he’d been hurtled back in time to fifth year--oddly enough, it was a pleasant feeling.

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry. “I’d love to catch up, and my lunch hour’s just started.”

Cho smiled, and it was like sunrise. The two ordered—a sweet latte concoction for Cho, a coffee and a sandwich for Harry—and sat down in a coy corner table, as far out of the public eye as two such famous people could get.

“How’s this season shaping up?” Harry asked, gesturing to Cho’s team sweatshirt.

“Oh, all right. We’ve a good lineup, I like our chances.”

“Of course your chances are good. You’re one of the best Seekers working.”

“Only because _you_ decided not to play,” laughed Cho.

“No, really,” said Harry. “I mean it. I love seeing your games.”

Cho blushed just a little. “Thanks.”

“’Course.”

“I think I’m going to retire, though,” said Cho after a moment. “After next season.”

“Pity,” said Harry. “What d’you think you’ll do then?”

“I don’t know. Probably just enjoy myself for a bit. I’ve got all this money and no time to spend it. I’d like to settle down, get a couple of kneazles, buy some fancy robes so I can accept a few of those gala invitations I’m always getting. Maybe remarry eventually.”

“Remarry?” Harry asked.

Cho laughed. “You really don’t read the news, do you?”

“Er, no,” Harry confirmed, “don’t trust it.”

“Of course,” she said with sympathy. “Well, if you were up to date on the gossip columns, you’d know I was the classic stereotype of an athlete, complete with bitter ex-wife.”

“Who?” Harry asked with interest.

“Er,” said Cho, blushing in clear embarrassment, “that’d be Marietta Edgecombe.”

Harry burst out laughing. Once he’d finished, (and it took a while), he sipped his coffee and said, because he couldn’t resist:

“Lawyers must have been expensive.”

“But worth it,” said Cho fervently. Both smiled and were quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

“Harry,” said Cho eventually, “D’you ever think about him?”

“All the time,” he replied, knowing she meant Cedric.

“I can’t help thinking,” Cho mused, “What if we’d been married now? Or maybe playing for opposing teams? Or perhaps both?”

“At the same time?" Harry joked lamely.

“Or maybe,” said Cho slyly, “it wouldn’t have been me who married him.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Harry lied.

“I’m implying that, instead of turning you down for the Yule Ball, I should’ve just brought you along with me and Cedric.”

“I couldn’t even manage partnered dancing. Can you imagine it in threes?”

“We’d have managed,” said Cho. “You must have seen how graceful he was.”

“I was watching his arse, not his feet,” Harry admitted.

Cho sighed. “I wish,” she said.

“I know,” said Harry.

“But we’ve got to live for him, I guess, since he didn’t get to.”

“Cheers to that.” Harry raised his coffee cup, and Cho knocked hers against his.

“I’ve never dated two people at once,” she said contemplatively.

Harry barely spluttered, really, barely at all. “And would you...I mean d’you...you’re interested in that, are you?”

“Well,” said Cho, shrugging, “I’m going to have a lot of time on my hands when I retire."

“Right,” said Harry. “And...I mean, I don’t want to—but...”

Cho caught him in that enchanting smile again. “Yes, Harry.”

Half an hour later Harry was in his office, composing a note to his boyfriend.  After all, Draco had always preferred a Seeker's build.


	5. Reno Dakota

Harry was not enjoying Zacharias Smith’s monologue, per se, but the world was becoming blurry and, well, the man _was_ blond. Harry had discovered in the two years since the war that he had a thing for blondes. He’d even been with Luna, who, while incredible, was far too much woman for Harry to handle. It was a good thing she’d found Ginny since. A good thing for all involved, yes.

Still, it would be at least one more drink before Smith could do anything for Harry except remind him of who _wasn’t_ here.

“Well, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“I was asking,” said Smith, a mite impatiently, “how your war hero status is treating you.” Harry could swear Smith was fluttering his eyelashes.

“It’s not as if you would know from experience, Smith,” came a familiar voice from behind. Harry closed his eyes.

“And you would, Malfoy?” asked Smith.

“Draco,” Harry greeted. “I didn’t see you were here.”

“Indeed,” sniffed Draco. “I was late.”

“Well,” said Smith huffily, “If you don’t mind, Malfoy, Harry and I were talking.”

“Really?” said Draco. “I didn’t hear Harry say a word. Anyway, love, you don’t want Smith. I’ve had him before, and trust me, there is not enough tequila in Great Britain.”

“Now see here, Malfoy,” said Smith, reaching to draw his wand.

“Please,” Harry finally spoke up. “Not here. The papers.”

Smith cast his eye about the room, then retreated. “All right. Only for you, Harry.”

“Thank you,” said Harry dryly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to talk to Draco. Have a good night, Smith.”

Smith’s mouth fell open in shock, but he gathered his wits enough to stalk away in high dudgeon.

“Was that really necessary?” asked Harry sharply.

“No,” said Draco, “but it was fun. You can’t tell me you actually _like_ the berk.”

“Of course not,” Harry admitted. “But then, I don’t like _you,_ either.”

“That’s not what you said last Friday.”

“Yes, well.” Harry looked at Draco, his eyes filled with distant humor. “My mouth was rather full.”

“You only have your own cravings to blame for that.”

Harry sighed. “Draco,” he began.

“Oh no, you’re not doing that again.”

“Doing what?”

“This running and hiding routine that you do.”

“I’m not hiding,” said Harry, gesturing to the bar around them. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Draco.

“Draco,” Harry sighed, “We’ve been over this. I told you the first time, and every time after, that I’m not available.”

“Right,” Draco scoffed. “You’re married to your guilt.”

“To my work,” Harry corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“My guilt doesn’t do anybody any good,” said Harry quietly.

“Neither does isolating yourself,” Draco countered.

“Why do you care?”

“You’re isolating yourself from _me_ ,” said Draco. “I can’t allow that.”

“So, what?” said Harry. “The disgraced Prince of Slytherin wants a relationship with the hermit Boy Who Lived?”

“You missed your calling as a writer for the _Daily Prophet_.”

“I wouldn’t wipe my arse with that rag.”

“No,” Draco agreed, “your arse deserves better.”

Harry sighed again. “Back off, Draco.”

“Not tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” Harry asked.

“Not then, either.”

Harry looked up and met the challenge in Draco’s eyes.


End file.
